


Ya'aburnee

by Ophidia_Queen_of_Nothing



Category: A Midsummer Night's Dream - All Media Types, The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bisexual Jaskier | Dandelion, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Cunnilingus, F/F, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Female Jaskier | Dandelion, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Fix-It of Sorts, Geralt Has a Pregnancy Kink, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has a Big Dick, I'm Bad At Summaries, I'm Bad At Tagging, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Not A Bad Person, Other, Powerful Jaskier | Dandelion, Scent Kink, Scent Marking, She Still Loves the Ladies, There are sad things ahead, Time Skips, Unplanned Pregnancy, Vaginal Sex, Yennefer is Kind of a Bitch, post mountain, sorry for the tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:53:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25819135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophidia_Queen_of_Nothing/pseuds/Ophidia_Queen_of_Nothing
Summary: Ya’aburnee literally means "you bury me," but it is an expressed concept of hope that the person you love (family, spouse, friend) will outlive you because life without them would be agonizing. It’s a way to express that you would hate to live without the person you love. I think that’s the kind of love Jaskier feels for Geralt. Jaskier is Fae, which in this means the half-blood child of Robin Goodfellow and Lady Adele Pankratz. She is an immortal trickster, with Fae morals and a human heart that loves both freely and deeply without shame.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Female Character(s), Minor Jaskier | Dandelion/Countess de Stael, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg - Relationship
Comments: 3
Kudos: 67





	1. How now, spirit!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Theo for beta reading this one for me! You can find Theo on Tumblr as theclichefortunecookie. The Chapters in this fic are a tad wonky, please bear with me for the odd lengths.

The moon was full, the sky was full of stars, the forest aglow in their light and from his oak tree throne, King Oberon watched over his domain with pleasure. The forest in Spring, just at the edge of winter was always a sight to see. The skies were still clear and cold, but the earth was well on its way to waking. His own sleepy lassitude was beginning to dissipate, leaving him in a pleasant mood that manifested itself as patience and generosity. His court had been slowly waking themselves alongside him, and he had greeted them all genially. All save for Robin. He had not seen his beloved trickster yet, and while he wasn’t irritated, he was beginning to grow concerned. Oberon had last seen the flighty fellow before he slept for the winter, and even then, there had been an unusual distance between the King of the Faeries and his loyal Puck.

“My king?” Oberon nearly laughed. Think of Robin in vexation and appear he shall! Oberon turned to face his favorite and felt himself stop short. For Robin had taken to his knees, and in his arms was a squirming bundle. A baby. Most of Oberon’s good mood evaporated like dew in the noonday sun.

“And how, my dear trickster, have you managed to acquire a changeling so early in our season?” queried Oberon. “Have you perhaps come short in your plans and now need me to fix your mess?”

“She’s mine, my king. A half-blood true, her mother died in childbed and I brought her here.” Pucks voice was desperate as he explained the presence of the babe. Oberon once again experienced an abrupt shift in mood and was even more disconcerted by it. There was Puck, more penitent than even Oberon had seen and the Faerie King was unsure what was going on. Robin shifted on his knees rocking slightly to soothe his babe. “I know I had not your permission to bring her, gracious king, but I couldn’t leave her to the mortals who suspected that she was something other.” Oberon found Pucks eyes for the first time since this exchange started, and was slightly surprised at the fear contained in them.

“You fear I will send you away with your little daughter.” Oberon’s voice was soft and wondering. How could Robin think such a thing? Was he not forgiven time and time again for any trespass? Did not his King love his favorite well enough? The trickster looked deeply saddened.

“It would be within your rights, my King. I did not…” Oberon felt his shape blur slightly in frustration as he waved his hand sharply, silencing Puck. He was by his oaken throne with Puck and then they were in his bower, moved solely by Oberon’s will.

“For pity’s sake Robin, have I not children myself? Our love is second only in nature to the love I have for my queen! Surely you do not think that I would be angry that you have had a child?” Puck looked startled and then ashamed. “You did, you truly thought me so simple in the way I love you that I would not simply see your daughter as an extension of what is mine.” 

“My Ki-“

“ROBIN!” Oberon finally shouted and instantly regretted as the babe-in-arms started to cry, and Robin, too, began to weep. The legendary trickster had woken early from his rest by a pull he did not understand, and when he followed it to the last place he’d dallied with a mortal, a pit of foreboding had formed in his belly. Then he’d seen her, the bright beautiful girl with his eyes and her mother’s hair crying in a crib far from the mortal family and he’d known. They knew she was not like them; they knew and would turn to violence eventually and his heart sorrowed at the thought of his, his, child suffering so. He’d not rested since, not with a small babe to mind, and he’d not rested enough through the winter. He was weary in a way he’d never known and he was sorrowed and confused. 

“Oberon, my King, my love, I am sorry I doubted. I’ve never thought of children before and I do not know why this time a mortal dalliance gave me one.” Puck rocked his little treasure, trying to soothe and calm her and he feared he would not be able to. She had thus far cried herself to sleep and he could not settle her without magic and he could not bear to hurt her accidentally. So he tried to use human ways and they weren’t working. 

He knew by Faerie standards he was ugly, and he knew by mortal standards he was monstrous unless he glamoured himself. How could his face and touch soothe a half mortal babe? He could curdle milk with a smile, what comfort was he to his little daughter? He didn’t realize he’d started to sob until he felt the kind hands of his lordly love stroke his hair.

“Oh my merry trickster, Robin dear, do not weep. Children are a special joy, she will love you and we will love her. I’ve not a daughter yet, and a little princess for our court to dote on is nothing to sorrow for.” Oberon smiled as startled crystalline eyes met his own verdant gaze. “What is her name my Puck? Tell me here so that we may know her true name and give her one for all others to use.”

“The mortals called her Julia Adeline Pankratz, but I don’t think that is her true name.” Puck pursed his lips before continuing. “I do not know what her mother named her, and I have not the power to ask the dead. I have called her Jaskier, for the flowers her mother favored so.” Robin readily handed her to Oberon when the king reached for his new daughter. Oberon would either embrace her or reject her, and Robin would follow his lords lead either way. Oberon settled the babe in his arms and hummed soothingly, with just a touch of sorcery to calm her. She ceased her tears and looked up at him, and his heart filled with joy as familiar blue eyes regarded him with trusting innocence. She was his child now as well, and she would want for naught. As his trickster raised and loved her, so too would Oberon. Titania, in time, would likely bestow gifts on the girl as well.

“My little Buttercup Princess, darling Jaskier. I can see now, how the court will dote on her. How our changelings will play with her, how the silly sprites will cheer her sorrows, and how Titania’s Faeries will see to it she is only ever clothed in splendor fitting a princess.” Robin gazed adoringly at Oberon, feeling peace for the first time since his waking. He had not been sure his lord would love his child, and it would have torn his heart to leave her in the mortal world. But his king came first in all things. And Oberon knew this. 

He knew his trickster would have left his half-blood daughter in the other realm if Oberon but told him to. He also knew that it would likely be the end of the Robin he loved, and the end of their love soon after. And Oberon hated little more than losing what was his. “She is mine as you are mine Robin Goodfellow, woe be to any who try to take her from me.” Oberon turned and settled on his bed before dragging Robin in as well. They would rest, the three of them. And then face the Springtime revels that awaited when he reunited his court and Titania’s for the equinox.


	2. Whither wander you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued thanks to the marvelous Theo!

Years passed with little note after Robin brought his little girl home to Oberon, and they were full of joy. At first. Little Jaskier had been a lovely babe and grew into a sweetly beautiful girl. She had Puck’s eyes, his horns and mischievous nature. She had her mother’s fair face, dark curls, and smile. Oberon loved her quickly, and grew to love her deeply. Puck adored his child and delighted in playing tricks alongside his little princess. Even Titania, at first wary of a Fae child, grew to dote on the girl. But her nature as a Fae made things difficult as time wore on.

She could not hibernate, and so for the cold winter she was without her parents. It was only the grace of the neutral Rusalka and more benevolent winter spirits that allowed her to survive each season. She could not dance as long as they could, nor could she exist solely on nectar, flowers, magic and clean water. She was playful, she was magical, she sang like the sweetest bird, she was so many good, Faerie things. However, she was not a Faerie, and now after 14 years Oberon understood why Fae were so rare. 

Very little time had passed for him, barely a blink, yet she had gone from newborn babe to nearly woman. She was going to have their lifespan, he was sure of it, but he believed it would be a lonely one. For unique children can be doted on, shielded by novelty. Unique maidens needed to earn their gifts in Faerie Court, and novelty became a weapon for disdain.

Already that disdain had caused Oberon’s sly silly trickster to become violent in a way normally eschewed by the fun-loving Puck. And Oberon too had spilled the blood of another Faerie to keep her from being used against him. And Jaskier was canny, clever in the way Faeries were. The daughter of the wandering trickster was an accomplished trickster herself. She was clever in the way mortals were as well, and therein lay the greatest problem. She could and would lie outright if she thought it would work in her favor.

Not twist words, not conveniently forget details, not the kind of wordplay that was so prevalent in court so that they were as honest as their nature compelled them to be. She could spin her words in blatant falsehoods; lying as mortals did. Mind, she’d never done such a thing to Oberon, Robin, or Titania, but she had lied to others and that unsettled them like nothing else about her. Oberon hated to admit it, but what they could teach her had to be tempered by what she could learn from mortals. If she could lie, she had to learn when to lie. It was for these reasons and many more that Oberon had to break the heart of his little daughter. With a feeling of failure, he told his beloved Robin that their Buttercup Princess had to be sent away. 

The Puck wept, and begged to be allowed to see her whenever he wanted. Oberon blinked away his own tears and agreed. For he was not a cruel king, not always, and why stop Robin from seeing the child when Oberon planned on visiting her as well. But they both knew they could not keep her in court. The danger to her grew ever greater and leaving her defenseless in the winter was no longer just a worry, it was a terror inducing nightmare. War was coming to the Faerie realm, and Oberon knew from experience that changelings and Fae children were the first to fall when the courts went to war. To wake with her slaughtered or kidnapped would break Robin and drive Oberon to rash, enraged choices. He was king first, father and lover second. He could not, no matter how much he wanted to, keep Jaskier in his court. She presented too much of a weakness.

“I knew.” whispered Jaskier when he told her. Her familiar blue eyes were spilling the same bitter salt as her papa and her remarkable composure was fading fast. “I knew I didn’t fit, that I was not going to be allowed to stay.” Her voice remained soft, and would have convinced Oberon she was not upset if not for the evidence of her sorrow streaking her face. “You are going to send me away and forget me in the realm of men.”

“Never!” Robin cried out and cradled her close and Oberon spared a moment for self-praise for thinking of bringing them to his bower so they would not be disturbed or spied upon. He stepped behind Robin and wound his long arms around both of them.

“It’s not fair.” Jaskier began to sob. “It’s not bloody fair!” It was Oberon all could do to wrap her up tight and hold her close in the circle of his arms. For fair or no, her leaving was inevitable. Robin had already made a deal with a mortal he knew well, the closest a Faerie could have to a mortal friend, and had secured Jaskier a place at Oxenfurt. The playwright would see to it the girl was educated and safe. Boleslaw was a decent sort for a mortal, and Oberon too trusted that the man who so loved the Faerie would not harm a Fae child. Robin had also secured her a fortune on which to live, a vast sum of gold and gems; useless in Oberon’s realm but coveted deeply by mortals. Even far from them, from the comforts of the trees, she would be taken care of. 

Dearest Robin did not want his little songbird to go. Jaskiers songs and smiles brightened the world for the Puck, and he had never feared or hated his ugly face. The Buttercup Princess was going to be in a cruel place, where Robin could not intervene as he pleased. They had to be careful of the mortals, as getting caught was a fate worse than death. Their meetings would have to be secret and few. Though Oberon would watch in his mirror and protect her as best he could with his magic. And Robin would be with her in every concealing shadow or convenient tripping hazard. She would leave, likely never to return and Robin Goodfellow mourned his loss as much as hers. Oberon too felt devastation. Oberon hated losing her, she was his and he loved her as much as he could love anything that wasn’t his queen or his puck. 

They would miss her, and do their utmost to see her as often as they could. They, at least, had one another, and a strangely sympathetic Titania, for comfort. But their daughter would be alone. It was the thought of Jaskier facing her long years to come, facing love and heartbreak, joy and sorrow, without her fathers that finally caused Oberon to weep. Soon Jaskier’s chestnut hair was wetted with the tears of a Puck and a Faerie King, and the family settled together on the flowery bed of Oberon’s bower, one last time.


	3. Thou Speakest Aright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the amazing Theo!

Jaskier has passed four years at Oxenfurt and knows she can stay no longer. She is still hurting, still cries sometimes and she knows she’ll never heal while she’s here. She can’t stop looking for her fathers in every shadow and flower and tree in the city where they settled her. It is a lovely city, but nothing like home. What used to be home. She yearns for the comfort of her father’s bower, and her papa’s loving arms, and her Aunt Titania’s garden where her hair was braided with flowers. She longs for music made with the sounds of a brook and the wind. She misses her petal soft gowns of spider silk and the sweet potent Faerie nectar. The sights, scents and tastes of the Spring Court were beyond compare, and Jaskier would give anything to see, to smell, and to taste them again.

It is a wish made often, but in vain, for Jaskier knows she’ll never have those things again. Because for all the pretty words they spoke and all of her father's promises, of visits and presents and company, she’s not seen them since the day they left her. Faeries can’t lie, but they can forget. And time passes strangely in their realm. They might not even remember her and she grieves terribly just thinking of them. There is no peace to be had for Jaskier in Oxenfurt, it is too full of reminders. 

She must be elsewhere, doing something other, if she is to learn to live without mourning her old home. If she is to be without papa or father forever more, she cannot be in a place where she keeps hoping they will be just around the corner. And, now, with no Boleslaw to ease her heart and help her navigate in a world she didn’t understand, Oxenfurt was as unfriendly and harsh as the Winter Court.

Boleslaw had tried his hardest to give her comfort as the years passed, and she had been very fond of the old man. He taught her the lute, the viol, the harp, the piano, the drums, and the flute. He taught her how to write poetry in any form and format well enough to please even the harshest teachers. He was a bright and merry man, like a piece of home away from home. And now, he too was gone. 

He had been sprightly and bright eyed despite the white of his hair and stooped frame. A mortal blessed and loved by Faeries had a long life-span and few of the many complaints of old age. But no Faerie could stop the march of time for a human, and Boleslaw died in the winter cold while Jaskier wept at his bedside. The unfamiliar world she had been slowly mastering was all of a sudden thrust on her with no buffer, no guide to help her. It was like being caught in a raging river. All Jaskier could do was go with the current and try not to drown or shatter upon hidden rocks. It was no easy task.

Though she has excelled at learning human bardic traditions, music, poetry, storytelling, astronomy, healing, art, she has struggled to learn to act like a human. She’s not human enough to really connect to them, and the more perceptive ones are wary of her for reasons they can’t explain. It’s not how she looks, for everything Fae is hidden well. There is simply something other about her that draws humans in as well as repulses them when they get too close. She does not fear the dark night, she does not jump at shadows, fearsome beasts and monsters are a joy to her. She recognizes the wild in them and feels the echo in her soul.

Jaskier has had to learn social customs; ones that made no sense to her. Skirts had to be long enough to cover her down to her ankles, nudity was viewed as shameful, eating flowers was considered weird, drinking from streams was beastly, laughing at someone was rude, and dancing as you walked was something only the mad or bards did. Jaskier wanted to be a bard, for she had always loved music and had not gone a day without singing since she learned she could. It was also helpful because her nature was more easily hidden by the excuse of “eccentricity” if she was a performer. But until she gained her bardic mastery, she was just another gently bred maiden. Thus was to be ever proper, reserved, distant from the opposite sex, and act like she wanted nothing more in life than to be an empty-headed little trophy. Truly, humans were awful to their women.

Jaskier might live in their world now, and she might have to be somewhat bound by their rules, but she would not allow that to be her fate. No false love and empty marriage for the daughter of Robin Goodfellow. She would find her great love, and she would settle for nothing less. She just had to learn what mortal love was like, and how to tell if it was true. The only thing she knew so far of mortal love was that mortal men lied often about it. Her hatred of Valdo Marx for that lesson would last as long as she lived. 

She had fallen swiftly for the older man, flattered by his words and sweet, empty gestures. He had lied about loving her to gain her bed. When it was denied to him in favor of waiting for her 18th birthday, he swiftly dropped his charade and taught her that sweet words did not mean that they were honest words. It was a lesson on lying as well. Jaskier lied, yes, and played tricks, but nothing harmful, for her nature was not inherently cruel. She would never lie about something as important as whether or not she loved someone. And she would never be so cruel as to rebuff that love in public with a song. 

Jaskier knows she is strange to humans. She holds grudges for odd things that humans think nothing of and cares little for things that matter most to them. She gets furious when she catches another bard trying to steal her name, but not at urchins stealing her coin. Coins are everything to mortals and names are replaceable and powerless. The humans don’t seem to understand how powerful a name can be. Thankfully, they do not know her real name and she doesn’t bind them to her will even when they so casually offer her theirs. Jaskier knows she’ll be better off on the road where people might not think her so strange, if only because she never stays long enough for them to know her. With this in mind and sorrow weighing heavy on her heart, she gathers up her belongings. Her books, clothes, and coin settled in a piece of the world humans can’t see tucked in her pocket.

She sets out from Oxenfurt carrying only the lute her papa gave her, one that was okay for human ears, so it could be seen by human eyes. It was not an important lute, save for that it was from papa. It was a beautiful and well-crafted instrument, detailed with flowers and vines. The wood itself had been dyed in greens and yellows, but not so much that the natural grain of the wood was lost entirely. Her papa’s gift had been the envy of many other students at Oxenfurt. Which pleased the petty prankster Fae, and she delighted in showing off with it. 

The other lute she owned was secreted away in the very air around her, ready to be plucked if ever her hands and mind reached for it. It was her weapon in times of great need, and not for mortal hands to touch or mortal minds to know. That instrument had been a gift from her father, and it’s body was dark red wood from a tree that grew only for the Lord of Spring himself. The Heart Tree was a source of great power for Oberon’s court, and his gift was a piece of that power that could alter reality in all realms. It was a strange thing, as Oberon had not crafted it for her. It had simply been waiting for him one day when he went to tend the tree, and he had known it was hers the moment his fingers touched it. She had been warned to never use it lightly, for using it would draw much attention to her, and her task was to hide in plain sight. 

The Lute was as Fae as she; belonging in neither world and if used wrong could wreak havoc in both. The sight of it made both Faeries and mortals uneasy. Boleslaw had often asked her to see it, only to shiver and look away after mere seconds of beholding it. Before he died, the old playwright had made Jaskier had vow to never use the great magics it was capable of for anything less than life or death. The Lute and her magic infused songs were always to be her last resort.

It was fine for Jaskier to dance, sing, and charm with minor magics. She would not be the daughter of Robin Goodfellow if she did not play a few tricks after all. But the power to enthrall with her voice would make her an enemy of mortals and immortals alike if she used it too often. She had also sworn to never use her powers on the innocent. And so Jaskier the Forgotten Buttercup Princess left Oxenfurt, determined to become Jaskier the Songstress, or Jaskier the Infamous Bard.

She would outshine all who came before her, her songs would reach every corner of the mortal world and be etched into history. She would never be forgotten again. However, to write epic songs, she needed epic inspiration. She needed something to sing about, something special. Jaskier would write such beautiful and catchy tunes that everyone would hear just a little piece of them and know they were her creations. She would be adored by courts and common folk alike. She would find belonging in jubilant crowds and rowdy taverns. Home was out there! Somewhere. Just not here.


	4. I am that merry wanderer of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Theo for all your hard work beta reading for me and helping me struggle through dialogue.

A few months and many leagues later and she was not loved. Apparently, humans had very specific ideas on what a woman could sing about. Abortion and free love were apparently not on the list. Jaskier was frustrated and at a loss, no epic inspiration had dropped in her lap and walking the roads didn’t help her find it either. Just bad ale, bad food, and tasteless, artless morons.

She picked up the thrown bread and vegetables and glanced around the gloomy tavern. She spotted a lone man at a table. He exuded an air of irritation and every man in the place gave the table a wide berth. Good. If she sat there, she didn’t have to be sparkling or even kind. He didn’t appear to want interaction and that suited her just fine. 

She went to the bar and ordered a glass of wine and a bit of fruit. Her papa’s parting gift of wealth was nowhere near exhausted, but she needed to make sure she was careful not to spend too much coin in rough places. Wealthy bards were not wealthy for long, and wealthy girls traveling alone did not live for long. The young bard lightly drummed her nails against the worn wood of the countertop, not impatiently, just for something to do when a man passing behind her cruelly grabbed her backside in two meaty hands. The grasp wasn’t meant to tease or titillate, it was painful and meant to make her cower; it would leave bruises. And she had not been raised to tolerate it, four years of the human world be damned.

Geralt had scented the little Faerie the second he’d walked in; he’d been ready to clock her as a threat until he realized that her scent was immature. She was young, likely only here for curiosity. Her appearance was human enough, a good glamour, but her scent gave her away. No human woman naturally smelled like the forest in the rain, and the scent was far too wild and complicated to come from a bottle. He was mildly amused by her plainly inappropriate song, less amused by the humans throwing rotted food at her. But even though the scent of her irritation mounted she didn’t react violently. As long as his medallion didn’t vibrate strongly, indicating her drawing on her magic, he was content to let her be. Most Faerie weren’t inherently violent. Although the half pickled human shit-stain grabbing rough handfuls of her ass and spewing filth at her seemed to inspire violence readily enough. 

Geralt sighed heavily. The Witcher hated to intervene in human affairs, but letting her kill the man would only lead to him having to hunt her later. It wasn’t her fault she was being assaulted, and dammit here came the claws. At least he could justify it as him protecting a non-human from doing something stupid. 

He crossed the room before anyone else could react and carefully caught her wrist in his hand, pulling her arm against his chest to hide the sudden length of her nails. She would have clawed out the fool man’s eyes or throat if he hadn’t stopped her. He turned his head and leveled the human with an impressive glare that caused the drunk to stumble back and fall on his ass. He then had to catch the Faerie’s other wrist as she tried to slap him, he tilted his head down and was met by furious blue eyes; the bluest shade he’d ever seen. They were bright enough that they’d likely reflect light in the dark. Like his.

“Hmm. Don’t do that.”

Jaskier felt her fury drain out of her the instant she made eye contact. This one had gold eyes with cat’s pupils! He couldn’t be human, not at all. Maybe he was like her? She opened her mouth to ask him so very many questions, she wanted to know everything, and all that tumbled out from the jangle in her mind and mouth was “What the fuck?” 

Geralt snorted. “Come on.” He released one of the Faerie’s arms and led her outside, to the stables where Roach was waiting. “You can’t claw them if they make you mad. It’s useless, they don’t learn and then they will fear you.” Geralt glanced over at the young woman again, ensuring he had her attention before continuing. “You’ll give yourself away and be both in danger and a danger. You need to go back home to the courts until you are older and can control your temper.” Jaskier felt a familiar stab of pain at the mention of the courts and she blamed her hectic last four years for the blurted-out truth.

“I can’t go back. Half-bloods aren’t welcome there.” Geralt blinked, startled. Vesemir had once mentioned half-blood Faeries when they had their lessons on the fair folk. A powerful, rare, mixed creature that hadn’t been seen in 200 years at least. He scented her mounting frustration. The hurt beneath it. She gazed at the ground without seeing it. “Too human to stay with the Faeries, too Faerie to fit with humans.” She murmured to her shoes. She lifted her gaze and focused on his eyes, warring emotion writ plainly all over her face. “Are you like me, sir?” Geralt shook his head before she even finished her question, then paused and shrugged as he released her wrist.

“I am not human, no. But I am no Faerie either.” He crossed his arms and tilted his head to the side. The bard tilted her head like he does, unconsciously mimicking him and his posture. Geralt can see her curiosity and answered her unspoken question. “I am a Witcher. Born human, changed into a mutant. I hunt monsters.” She blinked and tilted her head the opposite way, reminding Geralt of a bird. He has to suppress a smile. “I can’t help you blend in, lark. I do not fit in with humans either. But I may know of some who can.” Jaskier blinked back tears when the man-mutant? Witcher?- in front of her calls her lark. It is similar enough to songbird that it makes her miss her papa and father desperately. Geralt narrowed his eyes at the scent of her tears. “How old are you?” Jaskier paused.

“I have passed 18 winters, Sir Witcher,” said Jaskier with pride. Geralt sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand. 

“Not a sir. Just Witcher or Geralt will do. Humans don’t tell time in seasons for the most part, they count years. You just say 18 years old.” He looked down at the young woman in front of him and wondered if he should simply walk away now. There is no contract. Likely no coin in it for him either. But he doesn’t want a contract put out on this young woman either; and Faeries tend to draw the wrong kind of attention quickly. 

The last thing Geralt wants to do is try to find a way to save this half-blood from the attentions of a lord or mage intent on getting to the Faerie realm. It will be a pain in the ass. Fuck his soft heart. “What is your name, bard?” Her blue eyes widen and she gave him a suspicious look. Geralt sighed again as he remembers that names are important to their kind. “No trick, just something to call you other than bard or woman.” She gave him a quicksilver grin, stepped back, and curtseyed with a flourish.

“I am Jaskier, daughter of the Puck and King Oberon.” Fucking shit, curse his soft fucking heart. Geralt’s internal chastisement was interrupted by a man claiming a devil is stealing the town’s grain supply. Thank Melitele. Monsters he could do, Faerie royalty could go jump into the Pontar. He listened to the man describe his problem, took half his pay, and started down the road. The bard ran after him.

“Let me come with you Witcher! I need something to sing about! I need adventures and you smell chock full of them. Like death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak!” Jaskier paused “Or is that onion?” Geralt felt his mouth twitch in a reluctant smile ashis head twinged with fatigue. The combination of amusement and exhaustion seemed likely to persist in the company of Jaskier, and Geralt did not need or want that particular combination in his life. He had enough shit to deal with. 

“No. And it’s onion.” 


End file.
